I Can Fix It… Probably: Adventures in Doing things alone

It started with the wallpaper.

Faded, floral, and clinging to my kitchen walls like it was still 1987. I stood there with a steamer in one hand, a scraper in the other, and exactly zero knowledge of what I was doing. But I’d made a decision: I was going to remove it — all of it — probably.

Somewhere between burning my fingertips on the steamer and discovering a second, equally offensive layer of wallpaper underneath, I started singing along to Unstoppable by Sia like I was auditioning for a comeback tour. Loudly. Passionately. Definitely off-key.

My children wandered in mid-chorus, paused, and gave me that sideways look — the one that says, “Is she okay?” and “Should we be filming this?” at the same time. One of them slowly backed out of the room without breaking eye contact. I just kept going. That was my moment. And yes, maybe I was unhinged… but I also felt unstoppable.

Emboldened by my medium wallpaper success, I moved on to the patio. The pavers were uneven, weeds partying between every crack like it was spring break, and I was tired of pretending not to care. So I watched approximately 34 YouTube videos and borrowed a power washer from a friend who casually warned, “It kicks back a little.”

A little.

I ended up looking like a sand sculpture that got caught in a downpour. Wet sand everywhere — in my shoes, in my bra, in my soul. And the weeds? Still waving at me like, “Nice try, sweetheart.”

But I had tried. And that mattered.

Later, my friend came over with a bottle of sweet wine that tasted like fruit juice with a college degree. We drank, we laughed, and she decided to demonstrate what she claimed was “exotic chair dancing” on my ladder. I held onto the kitchen counter and attempted to dance seductively like my friend, lost my grip, and landed flat on the cold ceramic floor — laughing so hard I could barely breathe. And in that ridiculous, beautiful moment, I felt good. I felt strong. I felt… home.

It’s funny, really. I used to say, “He’s not doing anything.” And to be fair… sometimes I believed that with my whole chest.

But now that he’s gone — now that the silence hums louder and the trash doesn’t take itself out — I’m noticing all the things he was doing.

The little things I never thought about. The lightbulbs that somehow stayed changed. The way the batteries in the smoke detector never posed a problem. The second set of hands when the furniture needed moving, or the ladder needed holding.

It wasn’t everything, but it wasn’t nothing either.

Back then, I couldn’t see it. I was too deep in the frustration. Too busy doing what felt like everything to notice the quiet ways he was showing up.

My truth felt like The Truth — but now, with space and perspective, I can see the nuance. I can see the imbalance, yes… but also the effort I never gave credit for.

And now? Now it’s all me.

The lightbulbs, the batteries, the weeds, the wine, the wall that may or may not need a professional.

And somehow — I’m still standing.

The cavalry isn’t coming.

But I’ve got me — and honestly, I’m scrappy as hell.

I’ve got mismatched tools, a questionable relationship with DIY projects, and a playlist that makes my kids roll their eyes.

I can fix it.

Probably.

And when I can’t? I still know how to laugh, pour the wine, and get back up.

I live here now.

And every messy, magical day… I’m becoming the woman I was always meant to be.